


Reason

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Anal Sex, Birthday Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Married Couple, No Plot/Plotless, Nostalgia, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-08 00:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7735438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Unconditional acceptance doesn’t come easy to Hayato -- it’s not something he expects from anyone else, and he gives it as rarely as he receives it -- but Takeshi has earned his place through years of inexplicable consistency, and finally even Hayato’s stubbornness had to give way to the unstoppable warmth of the affection as confusing and certain as everything else Takeshi offers to him." After years of example, Takeshi has finally taught Hayato how to accept some things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reason

Yamamoto Takeshi is a paradox.

Hayato has had nearly a decade to make sense of him, and still he’s no closer to finding any kind of reason to the other’s behavior than when he was in middle school hissing insults at the too-loud, too-happy baseball idiot inexplicably fixated on making friends with him instead of the vicious competition Hayato always felt they should have. Takeshi is too warm, too bright, too unfazed by the darkness that lurks everywhere in the world to be anything like clever, to be anything other than an idiot; but Hayato has seen him with a sword in his hands, has seen the way the bright of his smile gives way to the focused intensity of a true hitman under pressure. He thought for a while it was a facade, had decided the happy-go-lucky baseball idiot was an elaborately constructed front to disguise the dangerous violence lurking behind those innocent gold eyes; but Takeshi falls back to happiness at the first opportunity, dips into that burbling laughter while he’s still stripping bloodstained clothes from the tan of his skin, and smiles so warm that even Hayato’s perpetual distrust can’t find a flicker of insincerity behind the other’s gaze. He’s spent years looking for it, many of them layered over with irritable frustration when he could find no traction; and finally he capitulated, gave over his stubborn insistence on reason and accepted that he’s never going to find an explanation for the way Takeshi combines danger with delight, for the way he can be the best support Hayato could ever hope for in a fight at the same time he embodies all the awkward enthusiasm of teenage kissing and fumbling first times. Unconditional acceptance doesn’t come easy to Hayato -- it’s not something he expects from anyone else, and he gives it as rarely as he receives it -- but Takeshi has earned his place through years of inexplicable consistency, and finally even Hayato’s stubbornness had to give way to the unstoppable warmth of the affection as confusing and certain as everything else Takeshi offers to him.

He thinks about it, sometimes, on anniversaries or when he’s had enough sake that his thoughts wander far afield and into the shadows of his childhood and the gold-haze glow that illuminates his adolescence. Hayato doesn’t think there’s anyone, not even the Tenth, who knows Takeshi as well as he does; Reborn seems to know everything, sometimes, and of course Takeshi’s father knows the minutiae of his son’s childhood better than Hayato will ever be able to catch up to. But there are parts of Takeshi no one has ever seen but Hayato, facets of the other’s shine that are held behind locked doors and muffled by gasping voices, and there are times Hayato wants nothing as much as to surround himself with those.

Times like right now.

“Oh,” Takeshi gasps, shoulderblades flexing under the saturated gold of his skin as his hands fist on the sheets under him, as his spine curves to arch him into a helpless attempt for more. “ _Hayato_.”

Hayato growls. “Takeshi,” he says, slurring the rough edges of the other’s name into a purr against the back of his throat. When he moves it’s to rock himself forward, to stroke through a slick drag of skin-on-skin as he thrusts deeper into the heat of Takeshi’s body. “Do you want it?”

“Hayato,” Takeshi says, sounding almost coherent for a moment; and then, as Hayato’s hips snap forward again and Takeshi’s shoulders tense hard under his skin, “ _Oh_ ,” sounding very much the opposite. “Yes, yes, I want it.”

“What?” Hayato prompts, leaning in closer over the radiant heat of Takeshi’s skin to catch his lips at the dip between the other’s shoulderblades, to taste the faint salt that clings to the sweat glistening over the other’s back. “What do you want, Takeshi?”

“You,” Takeshi says, immediately, without any more trace of self-consciousness than he has ever shown for this particular admission. It makes Hayato’s cheeks flush, makes his breathing stick for a moment, and Takeshi is curving under him, pushing against the bed to press himself so close Hayato’s necklace catches between them, the cool of the metal pinning to a point of chill between Hayato’s skin and Takeshi’s. “Hayato, please, I want you.”

“I know,” Hayato says, and that’s heady too, the truth of the statement like some rich wine on his tongue that even years haven’t given him a tolerance for. It’s strange to feel self-confidence so solid in his chest, odd to be able to rely on Takeshi’s affection for him even after more than enough time for the other to grow tired of all Hayato’s imperfections. But Takeshi is as consistent towards Hayato as he is in everything else, he throws himself headfirst into love without any attempt at checking to see how deep the dark waters of affection go, and with Takeshi Hayato can feel that certainty like the weight of summer sunlight on his shoulders, like he’s bearing the mark of Takeshi’s adoration as clearly in the pale shine of his hair as in the uncharacteristically plain ring on his finger.

“I know,” Hayato says again, just to taste the words, just to feel the way they fit against the inside of his chest as easily as his fingers fit against Takeshi’s hipbones. “I’ll give it to you.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi moans, the sound going hot at the sheets, and Hayato draws back, slow, without easing his hold at Takeshi’s hips to mitigate the loss of the motion. Takeshi doesn’t protest, doesn’t give voice to even a whimper at the action; he just moves, turning under Hayato’s hold as Hayato rocks back over his knees as if they’re moving on some choreographed cue. It ought to be a clumsy movement, ought to be made awkward just on the tangle Hayato has made of their legs and the sticky cling of the sheets to their bodies; but Takeshi makes it look graceful as he tucks one too-long leg up against his chest and rolls over to fit himself back under Hayato’s braced-out arms, and by the time Hayato is leaning back in closer Takeshi is reaching for his shoulders and hooking his legs back around Hayato’s hips with a humming sigh like he’s settling back into a favorite position.

“Hi,” he says, smiling all over his face as he turns his head up for a kiss, as he offers flushed lips and heavy lashes for Hayato’s appreciation as the other leans in closer.

“Idiot,” Hayato tells him, and kisses him anyway, because there’s no part of him that can possibly resist the temptation of Takeshi melting himself to contentment under him. Takeshi makes a sound against his mouth, a soft, warm noise of incoherent appreciation, and Hayato lets Takeshi’s legs around his hips draw him down and close against the other’s body as he lets one of his bracing hands shift to slide under Takeshi’s shoulders instead. “You make it sound like I only just got here.”

“I haven’t been able to see you,” Takeshi says with the kind of foolish logic that Hayato has never been able to muster a good response to. “It’s nice to look at you again.”

“Shut up,” Hayato says, still more softly than the words suggest, and rocks his hips forward to slide back into the grip of Takeshi’s body under him. Takeshi arches to the friction, his spine curving with fluid grace like a wave breaking through the muscles of his body, and Hayato presses his face to the line of Takeshi’s shoulder and breathes in the warm glow of the other’s skin as he moves into him, finding a rough elegance to his own actions that Takeshi rises to meet. “Aren’t you ever quiet?”

“Hayato,” Takeshi says, and his voice is liquid and Hayato knows what’s coming, can all but feel the tension of coherency in Takeshi’s body giving way to the pliant surrender of pleasure on the other’s tongue. Takeshi’s lips catch at his hair, Takeshi’s breathing tickles the curve of his ear. “I love you.”

“I know you do,” Hayato growls into his shoulder, “shut up” and he moves to punctuate, speeding his rhythm with some half-formed idea of rendering Takeshi too incoherent to manage the clarity of confession at his hair. Takeshi shudders under him, gives up a full-throated moan of pure heat; but when he gasps it’s affection on his tongue, when he pants through his breaths it’s only to manage “Hayato, _Hayato_ ” with remarkable clarity of voice, given the circumstances.

“Yeah,” Hayato says, feeling the word going slippery on his tongue as if the electricity running through his veins has made it slick and unwieldy when he tries to speak. “Yeah, Takeshi, like that?”

“Ah,” Takeshi says. “Like that” and he groans as Hayato fucks into him, his fingers curling to a fist against the tangle of the other’s hair. He lets one leg slide down to hook his heel around Hayato’s knee; the other stays where it it, pressed tight around Hayato’s hip like he’s urging the other deeper, or like he’s trying to pull himself up off the bed to meet the forward jolt of Hayato’s movements. “ _Hayato_.”

“Are you going to come?” Hayato asks, starting to smile around the question because he knows the answer, he can feel the reply in the way Takeshi is shuddering apart underneath the weight of his body. “Hey, Takeshi, are you going to come like this?” He shifts his bracing hand down lower, alongside Takeshi’s waist instead of up by his shoulder; the different angle lets him steady himself better against the bed, gives him better traction to rock forward with more force and more deliberation behind the movement. “Are you going to give me what I want?”

“I don’t--” Takeshi starts, and then breaks off sharply into a moan as Hayato thrusts deeper into him than he’s gone before. Hayato can feel the tremor that runs through Takeshi’s body, can feel the convulsive wave of reaction that clenches tight around him. “Hayato.”

“I want you to come,” Hayato tells him directly, pouring the words like rain over the part of Takeshi’s half-open mouth as the other gasps for breath. Takeshi’s lashes flutter, his throat works on a swallow, his fingers tighten to a fist in Hayato’s hair. “It’s my birthday, Takeshi, come for me.”

Takeshi’s lips curve, his breath stutters into a gasping laugh. “I can’t just--just because you say so,” he protests, but it’s weak and Hayato knows it is, he can see the logic of argument melting away from Takeshi’s expression as the other’s whole face starts to go slack with rising heat. Takeshi’s leg shifts around Hayato’s hip, his thigh flexes involuntarily; Hayato can feel Takeshi’s cock jerk between them when Hayato thrusts forward, can feel the reflexive response to his actions in the strain of the other’s body. “ _Oh_.”

“You can,” Hayato tells him. “Do it, Takeshi.” He rocks forward hard, forces a groan from Takeshi’s throat and an arch from his back. His breathing is coming faster, rushing towards desperation in his chest, but he doesn’t stop, just steadies his hand at the bed and keeps pushing harder, faster, gauging the pace of his movement from the ripples of pleasure washing over Takeshi’s expression with every motion of his hips. “Come for me.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi whimpers, his fingers fisting at Hayato’s hair, his hand pressing hard at Hayato’s hip. “I. Hayato.”

“Yeah,” Hayato says, “Because I say so” and Takeshi’s eyes open, his heat-blurred vision catching at Hayato’s face for a moment. His lips are parted, his gaze is dizzy, his fingers are clutching to Hayato like the other is a lifeline, and Hayato can see the pleasure in him a moment before it breaks, can see the breathless anticipation crest and sweep out to eclipse even Takeshi’s focus on his face. Takeshi’s head goes back, his throat works on a moan, and between them his cock jerks and spurts hot over his chest, droplets catching and clinging to Hayato’s skin as he keeps moving. Takeshi is shaking under him, quivering like his body lacks the strength to hold itself together anymore, but his hold on Hayato is still steady, is going tighter rather than easing with each tremor of relief Hayato can feel run through him.

“ _Oh_ ,” Takeshi gasps, his lashes shifting as his gaze comes back into focus on Hayato, as his mouth curves into the soft of an unconscious smile. “God, Hayato.” And that’s it, Hayato can feel it is as clearly as if he’s reading the words from a page.

“Fuck,” he blurts. “Takeshi, I’m going to--” and he’s going, he’s falling, pleasure is sparking out into his veins and exploding behind his eyes and he’s tipping forward to press his forehead to Takeshi’s shoulder, to gasp breathless shock against the other’s skin as the rhythm of his hips stalls into the uncontrolled, reflexive stutter of orgasm. His head is pressing at Takeshi’s shoulder, his breathing is turning to a groan in his chest; and Takeshi’s holding onto him, legs and arms tangled around Hayato less like he’s trying to pin him still and more like he just can’t stand to be any farther away from the other’s body than he is right now. Hayato gasps a lungful of humid-warm air, feels the radiance of the heat fill his chest, and lets his bracing hand go, lets himself fall heavy against the support of Takeshi’s body under him. Takeshi doesn’t protest; he hums satisfaction instead, giving voice to pleasure with the same ease he always does, and when his arm slides sideways to loop around Hayato’s shoulders Hayato doesn’t try to shrug it away.

“Hayato,” Takeshi says, lingering over Hayato’s name like it’s poetry, like he’s appreciating the familiar shape of it all new again. “I love you.”

Hayato breathes against Takeshi’s skin, and he thinks about paradoxes, thinks about logic, thinks about the bright of gold eyes and a smile too beautiful for the harsh edges of reality and a strange foreign exchange student made of sharp edges and lit fuses with _danger_ so clear in every line of his angry shoulders it should have warned off anyone with half a brain to see it. He turns his head in closer, presses his nose against the soft dark of Takeshi’s hair just behind the other’s ear, and thinks about intuition and idiocy, rationality and reflex, all the things that shouldn’t fit together and somehow, inexplicably, do.

“Yeah,” he says against Takeshi’s hair. “I love you too, Takeshi.”

Not everything needs a good reason in order to be true.


End file.
